


He Loves Me, He Loves Me Not

by MissusCissaMalfoy



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angel Dean Winchester, F/M, Fluff, Gen, No Sex, No Underage Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-20
Updated: 2013-09-20
Packaged: 2017-12-27 02:30:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,167
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/973225
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MissusCissaMalfoy/pseuds/MissusCissaMalfoy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>If you’ve ever chased after a paper floating on a gust of wind, you know how difficult it can be to catch. It dips and spins and picks up speed, and the damn thing escapes nearly every time you lunge for it. But Krissy’s determined to get her flower back; Samandriel told her that if you interrupt the process of stripping the bud early, it’s bad luck. Something like “you’ll never find love, Krissy.” She can’t remember exactly, as she’d brushed him off when he first told her. Now that she’s so close, however, she’s frantic to get the flower back. Never finding someone to love sounds like one of the worst things that could happen to a person, in Krissy’s mind. So she runs after it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	He Loves Me, He Loves Me Not

The petals are soft in her fingers, and float delicately away with the breeze when she releases them with a soft murmur of, “He loves me… he loves me not.” A curl falls into her eyes and she huffs, blowing it away only to have it fall back into her face. Krissy still remembers when her friend, Samandriel, taught her how to find out if a boy likes you or not - you close your eyes and pick a flower, and pull off all the petals. The most important part, she remembers, is that you say the words. “He loves me, he loves me not,” until you run out of petals to pull off. Whatever you end on is true, Samandriel said.

And there it is again, that wretched curl. It’s always just the one falling in her face. The rest of her hair stays tucked neatly behind her ears or pulled back in a ponytail, but the curl is always there, always annoying her. She growls at it and puts down her flower, taking the strand of hair and pulling it taut, tucking it behind her ear and hoping it would stay there. Another soft breeze comes and picks up the daisy, and she immediately yelps, jumps to her feet to run after it.

If you’ve ever chased after a paper floating on a gust of wind, you know how difficult it can be to catch. It dips and spins and picks up speed, and the damn thing escapes nearly every time you lunge for it. But Krissy’s determined to get her flower back; Samandriel told her that if you interrupt the process of stripping the bud early, it’s bad luck. Something like “you’ll never find love, Krissy.” She can’t remember exactly, as she’d brushed him off when he first told her. Now that she’s so close, however, she’s frantic to get the flower back. Never finding someone to love sounds like one of the worst things that could happen to a person, in Krissy’s mind. So she runs after it.

She’s not sure how long she sprints - it could be two minutes or half an hour - before she starts to feel the burn. Naturally, she’d be able to run as far as she wanted for as long as she wanted, but after sitting for so long, her legs are kind of asleep. That strange static-y feeling is setting in, tingling through her muscles and forcing her to slow. She can see the flower flying further and further away, out of her grasp, and a helpless feeling starts to settle into her chest.

There’s nothing she can do, it’s too far up, too far away. There’s no way for her to reach it now. As the realization hits her, she slows to a stop, a stinging behind her eyes. She swipes hastily beneath her eyes and turns her head, as if to deny that the tears are there at all. A sob rips from her chest and she sinks to her knees in the grass. She knows it’s a silly reason to cry - it’s just a flower, after all - but it’s the fear of what’s to come that really hits her hard.

Her sense of time escapes her as she sits there, and she’s not sure whether she sits there for seconds or hours before feet appear in front of her. Krissy jumps, recoiling back. Her eyes rove over the scuffed-up boots and old jeans, the plaid shirt with the sleeves rolled up to the elbows, but she stops when she sees… feathers? She’s got to be dreaming, because it looks like the man has _wings_. They flutter for a moment as she stares at them, and she gasps, crawling backward. She doesn’t even realize he’s speaking until he crouches in front of her and waves a hand in front of her face, like she’s blind or something.

Krissy blinks, and finally looks at his face. The first thing she notices are his eyes, which are unlike any shade of green she’s ever seen. There’s something soft in them, something that makes her relax and forget all about her father’s speech about not talking to strangers. She sniffles and rubs her eyes hard, not wanting to embarrass herself in front of this new person.

She can see his lips moving, but nothing he’s saying registers in her mind. He says her name (that, she recognizes) and she distantly wonders how he knows it. After a moment or two of watching him, she finally speaks up. “Who are you?” she asks, so quiet it can hardly be heard.

“I’m Dean,” the man says, with a warm smile. “I’m your guardian angel. I think you dropped something.” From behind his back, he produces her flower, with the petals she’d left still attached.

Krissy almost completely disregards his statement about being an angel, and instead grabs for her flower. He hands it over willingly and she takes it and kisses it, ignoring the way he chuckles softly. When he sits beside her, his left wing (if that’s what they really are) curls around her. It’s warm - really warm, she notes - and she unconsciously scoots a little closer to him. For some reason, she feels oddly comfortable around him, even though he just appeared out of nowhere. She’s never even seen him before, and yet she already feels like she’s known him her entire life.

“Thank you,” she says softly, looking over at him and smiling shyly. It’s all she says before she pulls off another petal and continues her murmurs of, “He loves me, he loves me not.” She’s almost stripped the flower of half its petals before he speaks up again.

He says, “That doesn’t work, you know.”

Krissy tilts her head to the side and looks up at him, confused. After a moment, however, she narrows her eyes and turns her attention back to the flower. “It does too,” she mutters, stubborn as always.

Dean chuckles, leans back on his elbows and looks up at the sky. “Doesn’t,” he says.

“Yes it does!” Krissy huffs, turning completely around to face him. The stray curl falls in her face again, and before she can touch it Dean tucks it back behind her ear. “Alfie told me so!”

Dean’s hands go up in mock surrender, a grin plastered onto his face. “You’re right,” he says, nodding. “It does. I was testing you.”

Krissy frowns, tearing off another petal and mumbling, “He loves me not,” under her breath instead of answering him. Dean leans his head on his hand, propped against the ground, and watches her quietly; the girl he’d looked after all her life, so grown up even at eight. When the curl falls into her eyes again, he automatically pushes it back and under another strand which is pulled back in the ponytail at the back of her head. After a moment, without even looking up at him, she just mutters, “Stop watchin’ me.”

He doesn’t; he would never.


End file.
